Something To Hold Onto
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: When tragedy strikes, what is there left for Hermione to hold onto? Oneshot, complete.


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There aren't that many words in the English language. Not really. Not when you can't explain some things using the words that you have. After reading what has felt like hundreds of thousands of books, there aren't the words I can find for what it feels like to lose somebody you love.

We all know what pain feels like, right? It hurts where you did the damage.

What gets damaged when we lose someone? Is there somewhere for that? It isn't the same as normal pain. There's no real, concentrated ache. It's like you're feeling nothing and everything all at once. The incomprehension versus the truth - and the honest truth at that - is the worst feeling in the world. Your mind battles between the two for what can seem like millennia. I don't actually think there is any suitable response to a death.

Fred thought it would be best for him to drive me back from the funeral. Something about nostalgia. I'm not entirely certain I want the nostalgia at the minute though. It seems like a joke. I'm going to be stuck with nostalgia about my parents for the rest of my life, not getting anywhere with it. That's a little what grief is like. Wanting, needing, but getting no purchase. There's nothing to hold onto with grief. At least, that's what it feels like. In reality, there are people, and there are tables that you can latch onto when you really feel as if you're going to fall. In your mind, though? There's nothing to stop you from falling.

He thought it would be best to hold onto the nostalgia. Isn't that funny?

In my old Muggle fashion, I open the front door with the ancient silver key. It's not really ancient, but maybe I just feel older now. Certainly not wiser, but as though I have become weighted and slow, as if I've aged half a century. The key is of little importance, but it does lead me into the threshold of what normality was a week ago. Is normality important now? Do I have to pretend to move on? I don't think I want to, even though the pain may eventually disappear. Do I have to let go of the pain?

Thankfully, Fred doesn't touch me as I walk inside. I half expect to not be able to cross through the door, as though I'm dead and their house belongs to no one. But it belongs to me, because they're dead. Even if those myths were true, and supernatural beings could not cross the house threshold, the house belongs to me. Even though I'm a witch, it's mine. I'm not really sure that I want it. Should I want a house that simultaneously reminds me of my happy childhood and my dead parents? Is that a good thing? I'm not so certain. What do people normally do?

We don't speak as we move into the hallway. I don't bother taking my shoes off, because I never believed in that anyway, and my father isn't here to tell me that I'm wrong. He can't do that anymore. Isn't that funny, too?

I say funny. It's not really. It's not humorous in the slightest. More... Ironic. My father can never tell me that I'm wrong, or that my mother is correct and I should listen to her, or play chopsticks with me on our even older family piano. Do I have to keep the piano, because it's a family heirloom? It belongs to me, but I haven't felt like a Granger much recently. Hardly today, with numerous aunts and uncles I almost forgot to invite telling me that I'm brave, that I'm beautiful, strong, charming, caring, tall. All these adults telling me things I don't really care about.

I care that I can't make them cups of tea.

I care that they won't wish me goodnight.

I care that we won't get to spend every Christmas together.

Maybe I should have spent more time with them. Then again, that's what everybody says. If you knew your parents were going to die, you might spend fathoms too much time with them, suffocating them with love and you with stress. Love you would never normally bestow upon any person. If you knew your parents were going to die, you wouldn't be out doing other things. You'd be waiting for them to die. Yet, isn't that we don't realise life is about? You think you're living, then realise that you're just waiting to die.

Fred sets the car keys on the bare kitchen counter. Looking at it makes me feel naked. He doesn't smile like he would if this were any other situation. He would make a joke. That's what I liked about him. What about now? Will I like different things about him? Will I like him at all?

I don't think I want to cry.

I want to play the piano, and make a cup of tea. I want to dance my way through an ABBA album, drinking tequila. I want to catch a tennis ball, run the block, listen to Dire Straits, go to Church, build a sandcastle, eat a pizza, and roller-skate through the park. I want to do everything I've ever done with my parents again. Right now, in this quickly-passing second.

I also want to just be. To just stand here, wearing my black dress, tissues stuffed up one sleeve, and Fred being the only brightly coloured thing in the room. His orange hair is the only thing that doesn't seem sad here today. For me, he wore a Muggle suit. Today wasn't really about me though, was it? It was about my parents, and how they died.

They died in the car.

A car they've had for ages. A Citroen. Silver. Being sensible people, my parents were driving slowly down the country roads round the back of my grandmother's old house. I'm not sure why. As they pulled out of a junction, another car – maybe a van – was hurtling past. The police thought it might have been involved in a race, as indicated by nine other reckless driving incidents in the area that day. The police also thought it was okay to describe the accident, injuries, and their deaths in vivid detail. They said that the van driver might have sued if he had lived. Am I supposed to have faith in the police after that?

They contacted Fred. It was almost comical the fashion in which he arrived. He was clearly straight from the shop, wearing the bold colours of Weasley Wizard Wheezes and a rubber chicken hanging precariously from his right trouser pocket. I didn't point it out to him, and he didn't remove it while they explained to him what had happened. Fred fell into the seat beside me, looking much like a deflated clown. He asked what our options were, and what he should do. He also asked what the best bet for me was.

I presume he thought me delicate.

Dust is everywhere. I haven't a clue how it got in. Yet it sticks to the walls, and to the kettle, and to everything. It even seems to settle a little on Fred.

"I'm going upstairs," I murmur, my voice cracking and scraping. "Just for now." Fred nods in reply.

It seems as though I'm on autopilot, taking one step after another. I don't notice really where I'm going, because the intention isn't there. When I reach the landing, I'm uncertain of which direction to take. The thought of going into my parents' bedroom makes me feel physically sick, but so does the thought of doing anything at all. Is there any point in going into their bedroom? I've seen people do it in movies. They imagine where their parents lived, and breathed, and slept. They imagine that everything important happened in that room, and that life spilled from that room into the rest of the house. It's not true. My parents lived everywhere. They lived in the house, and only slept in the bedroom. Their lives were the foundation of my family, and they were the thing that spilled colour onto the walls, and brought furniture into being. Why would going into their bedroom make me feel worse?

My bedroom is the same. I didn't really expect it to be different coming in here. I'm already washed over and drowning in nostalgia.

Four walls, painted blue. A desk, a mirror, a wardrobe, and my school trunk. Three years later and I've barely touched it. Stacks upon stacks of books. In the middle of it all, my bed. But here I am, without security, without safety, lost in the dark.

Hours, days, weeks later, my bedroom door creaks open. Fred, with his vibrant hair and dusty suit, not quite matching his melancholy surroundings. He doesn't turn the light on as he moves towards me, seemingly uncertain of what to do with his hands. At first, they're in his pockets, then they're twisting around each other. Eventually he lays down on the bed beside me, as we have done so many times before. I thought that I wouldn't want to be near him, but it turns out that I'm wrong. Fred is like a lightbulb to a moth in that he's warm, and he's light, so he must be the sun.

And when he takes my hand, everything feels just a little bit lighter.

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 **This was tough-going, but I feel really happy with it. Ta.**

 **House: Ravenclaw ,** **Category: Themed (security) ,** **Prompt: Holding hands ,** **WC: 1656**


End file.
